The Call of Duty
by Drovenich
Summary: America is falsely accused of destroying another country. Devastated, he disappears. Years later, Canada is forced to pick up the pieces and give the world the closure it desires. And he does so dutifully. In the most painful way possible. One shot.


**Dro:** Here's that one shot I promised you guys for sending all three of my other fics over 100 reviews. Although, next time I write one of these, you may want to suggest what _kind_ of one shot you want me to write because my _default setting_ just happens to be_ angst_. Anyway, thanks for the triple 100+ reviews! When something hits 500 or I get another 100+ multi-chapter fic in, maybe I'll write another one of these, yeah?

**Story Summary:** America is falsely accused of nuking a country. Emotionally devastated at the betrayal of his friends, he disappears. Years later, Canada is the one who is forced to step up and tell the world the truth. And he decides to do it in the most painful way imaginable.

**Warnings:** Mentions of self-harm, Suicide

**Disclaimer:** Dro will never own APH.

* * *

It had all been a mistake.

"_Damn it, Alfred! How could you do this to the world? To me?"_

"_I didn't do anything, Arthur! I was framed!"_

"_Liar!"_

They had blamed him for something he hadn't done.

"_The country is _gone_, Alfred. The entire fucking country is gone!"_

"_It wasn't me!"_

And it had broken him.

"_What do you think we should do, aru? He deserves punishment for this! He deserves death!"_

"_We cannot make a decision that extreme, Yao."_

"_Shut up, Kiku! Shut up! My people are suffering from radiation poisoning now! That shit is spreading northward and killing my people!"_

"_We know, Yao. We know. Just calm down!" _

"_Ve, Ludwig…"_

"_We should just lock him away in solitary for the next century."_

"_Francis…"_

"_Don't give me that look, _Angleterre_. Even you cannot defend him this time."_

And by the time they decided on what to do, he was long gone. He had vanished into the shadows, never to reappear. They searched and searched and searched—for vengeance, for retribution—but they never found a trace of him.

And when they realized their mistake, when, seized with horror, they realized that they'd been hunting down the wrong person the entire time, they also realized they had ruined a nation forever. They had played right into the hands of their true enemy. Not only had a country been wiped off the map, but a nation had vanished from the face of the Earth. And no matter how hard they tried, they couldn't get him back.

"_Where is he, Francis? Where is he?"_

"_I…I don't know, _Angleterre."

* * *

Matthew stood beneath his umbrella, the rain rushing around him in torrents. His eyes were downcast, focused on the man in front of him. He had, of course, known long before now that his brother was dead. He had felt it in his heart the exact moment that Alfred had left this world. And he had cried. And cried. And cried. But now, standing in a rush of tears as the Earth wept for the son it had lost, Matthew could no longer find his own. He had spent them all breaking down over the past week, as he staggered from hotel room to hotel room, from city to city and town and town, trudging across the pitifully depressed United States of America.

Looking for Alfred's body.

The body that now lay cold on the ground in front of him.

If someone had asked him in the past how he thought his older brother would die, Matthew would have immediately answered "in a blaze of heroic glory, of course." There had never been a doubt of that. Not until the incident. The day he woken up to find out nukes had reduced an entire country to dust, he knew his brother would never be the same. The day he walked into a world meeting to watch the nations of the world turn their backs on America, watched the devastation in his brother's eyes as they accused him over and over of something he had not done, he knew Alfred's death would not be the way he'd always imagined it. The day the other nations locked him up and threw away the key as they discussed his unjust punishment, he knew that, sooner or later, he would find Alfred's body at his feet.

And here it was.

With no regard to the rain, he pulled his umbrella closed, letting the coolness bring him back to reality. As each drop weighed him down more and more, Matthew imagined an enormous weight being lowered onto his shoulders. He had told no one about Alfred's death. Not yet. Maybe never. He hadn't decided whether he wanted to give them the relief and closure that they didn't deserve. After what they had done, Matthew had closed himself off from them all. Despite their pleas for his "understanding," and later, their endless stream of apologies, Matthew had turned his back on them and kept it turned. Like they had done to Alfred.

He dropped the umbrella, ignoring the water that splashed onto his pant leg. It was pointless to carry around. He had more important things to hold. He crouched down next to his brother's lifeless form, replaying what he believed were Alfred's last moments. Bloodshot eyes. Drug abuse. Sleep deprivation. Desperate crying. Maybe one. Or two. Or all. Maybe neither. Bruised and cut wrists. Obviously self-inflicted in deep depression. There were no obvious mortal wounds on his body. Alfred had not done this rashly. He had planned this out. He had walked to this exact spot, taken something lethal—poison, an overdose, something—and laid down, watching a clear nighttime sky until his killer works its magic.

He was still in that position. A look of relief graced his face. He had felt himself slipping away, felt the world that had betrayed him leaving him behind. He faced the same sky in the same wilderness that he'd first come to consciousness in. Matthew knew this well. How many times had Alfred shown him this place? The place where he had his first memory of life.

Matthew kneeled down next to him and reached out, closing his brother's eyes for the last time. He picked up Alfred's arms and crossed them on his chest. His eyes broke away from Alfred for the first time in several minutes. Or was it hours? He looked for a proper place, spying a large lonesome tree in the middle of the clearing. Ignoring the large drops of water rushing down his glasses and soaking him to the core, he gently picked up his brother's body and started walking. He waded through knee-deep grass, each blade sticking to his wet jeans. When he arrived at his destination, he realized there was a small problem.

He had no shovel. He sat Alfred down. He refused to leave now. He looked at his hands. Alfred could lift vehicles like they were paperweights. He was Alfred's brother. So he dug with his hands. He didn't particularly care about the dirt caked under his fingernails or the raw skin where he's scraped his hands against roots and rocks. He didn't particularly care about the numbness or the hunger that seemed to have settled perpetually over his body. There was only one thing he cared about now.

When he finished, it was not rectangular. It was angled and erratic and oddly mal-formed. It was wild and free and completely defiant of the rules. It was perfect. So Matthew slipped his drenched coat off and used it to line the perfect hole in the ground, and he turned back to his brother. Alfred's body was still immaculate. Besides what he'd done to himself, he was flawless. Matthew had never seen another nation die, but he knew they just didn't immediately decompose. They decayed over decades, slowly eroding away as their countries gradually become nothing more than history. He brushed a stray hair out of Alfred's face. He wondered how long it would be before Alfred's body finally disappeared into the Earth. The United States had not dissolved. Not yet. Not for a while yet.

But that didn't really matter. Alfred would already be long lost to history by the time his nation followed him. In some ways, he already was. Everyone had given up now. Everyone but Arthur, who Matthew was most partial to at this point. Out of all of them, Arthur had been the one who'd clung to Alfred's side the longest. Even though he truly believed it had been the US that had launched the bombs, he had still clung to Alfred. But slowly, his loyalty had eroded away as Francis and Yao and Antonio and Ludwig had pushed and pushed and pushed. And in the end, he too had lost faith and left Matthew alone.

He wiped his dirtied hands on his damp jeans, unwilling to ruin his brother's perfect state. He brushed the unruly hair gently away from his face and leaned down, kissing Alfred's cold forehead. Should he say something? He wondered what he could possibly say that hadn't already been whispered in dark hotel rooms a thousand times.

_I'm sorry? Please forgive me? I love you? _

Too little. Too late.

So Matthew slipped his hands underneath Alfred's body and picked him up again, hovering over the empty hole in the ground. His eyes drifted to Alfred's face, drinking in the details. This would be the last time he ever saw it. He sank to his knees and held Alfred out, lowering his brother into his final resting place. He bent over as far as he could, unwilling to drop his brother. He released Alfred's body and paused for the briefest moment, taking a breath, before pulling back out of the hole in the ground. The gesture of letting go.

He eyed the pile of dirt and got to work. The first clump was the hardest. He struggled to release it, to let the dirt and grime rain down over Alfred's face. But he managed. And each time, it became easier. And finally, the hole was filled, and Alfred was resting in peace. Matthew patted the grave and smoothed it down, simultaneously looking around for something he thought necessary. He found a suitable one near the edge of the clearing.

It was heavy, but even with his exhausted body, he managed to lug it back. He sat down with it and pulled out his pocket knife, flicking the blade up. And he went to work again. Each letter took him several minutes, but time didn't matter. Not right now. Time would be irrelevant until he stepped into that meeting for the first time in three years. He remembered the very last time he'd walked into that room filled with people he had called his friends for centuries.

It had been quiet. Too quiet. And solemn. They had been cruel. Arthur was the one they forced to stand up, forced to say that they would be stopping the search for Alfred. The search had started as a death hunt and ended as a desperate last attempt of apology. It had begun with hundreds with weapons and grudges and hate and ended with tears and desperate pleas. And it had all been in vain.

Satisfied, he heaved up the large stone and sat it at the head of the grave. Raw, wild, and free. Perfect.

"_Alfred. F. Jones_

_The brother that always looked ahead,_

_The brother that always looked above,_

_The brother that always looked beyond,_

_And the brother that always looked out for me."_

Matthew's raw and bloody hand snapped the knife closed and stuck it back in his pocket. He breathed in. The rain had stopped, leaving cool, damp air behind. The sun was starting to peak over the horizon. He'd spent an entire night here. He stood on knees that cracked and groaned and looked down at his work. A sense of finality came over him.

"I love you, Alfred."

The first words to come out of his mouth in twenty-four hours.

* * *

It had taken him three hours to wash the grime off of his body and another four to feel warmth again. Now he was back on the street on a perfectly clear day, the only remnants yesterday's downpour the water lingering in the gutters. People milled about, happy and oblivious. He headed toward the airport on foot, not really caring about time just yet. He had all the time in the world right now.

He didn't have a single missed call or text message, no memos from his bosses. People had stopped asking for presence months ago. He could disappear just as Alfred had, but he wouldn't have the fanfare. Where Alfred had fizzled out after an frenzied explosion, Matthew would just fade away like pencil on a yellowed page. And that would've been all right with him had he not still had an important duty to fulfill.

So he got on that plane at exactly 10:00 AM, and he flew back to his home country. And when he closed the door of his home behind him, he headed to his bathroom and pulled out a pair of scissors. When he was done, he looked in the mirror, satisfied. He wiped the curtailed blond hairs off the sink and into the trashcan, not caring as a few floated off and stuck to the floor.

At exactly 9:00 PM, he sat down on his worn old chair and made a call. The man who picked up asked his name. And he gave it. And they talked. And Matthew told the truth that only he knew. Two hours later, a decision was made, and Matthew thanked the man and hung up the phone. Exhausted, Matthew treaded lightly up the steps to his room, locked his door behind him, and fell into a deep sleep. He dreamed of laying in that field of grass, Alfred's smiling face next to his own, giggling and joking and gazing up longingly at a clear blue sky.

When he awoke, he found himself doing the same at his ceiling. The phone was already ringing where he'd left it on the table downstairs. For now, he ignored it and got ready. This moment had come at an opportune time. The meeting was in his homeland today. He took another lengthy shower, the steady ringing of his phone a constant backdrop. He dried his new hair cut off with a towel and brushed it straight. He picked a tan suit from his closet and accented it with posh black shoes, still polished and shiny from his disuse of them. Still in the box, actually.

And finally, with a deep breath, he headed back downstairs. He heated himself a bowel of oatmeal and sipped a glass of orange juice, forgoing his usual routine of pancakes and maple syrup. Not today. This day would be different. After eating, he walked over to his living room and picked up the phone that was still ringing off the hook. And answered.

"Matthew Williams."

The man on the other end, despite calling all morning, was fairly polite. They would be sending someone to meet him with the paperwork he needed to make last night's decision official. Matthew came up with an appropriate meeting place, thanked the man, and hung up as he had the night before. Then he put on his coat and headed out the door.

The drive to the city wasn't long, and traffic was light. He pulled into the parking lot of the convention building he'd been to a thousand times. He stepped out of his car, locked it, and walked two blocks down the street to a Starbucks. The man he'd been informed of was already sitting at a table, a briefcase beside his chair. Matthew sat down without a word.

"Mr. Williams."

"Good morning."

With few words, Matthew filled out everything, noticing the man's eyes darting back and forth across the restaurant. "Don't worry. I'm not a very noticeable or suspicious person. There's plenty business rendezvous here all the time."

"Not noticeable? I suppose you mean before."

"Perhaps. Though whether I become noticeable or not after this moment depends on many factors."

The man nodded as Matthew handed him the papers back. "We will see you soon in our capital, I assume."

"Yes. Tell your bosses to give me a call. We'll arrange it."

The man nodded again. "I will see you again soon then, Mr. Williams."

Matthew walked back the two blocks and headed for the door. Humans mingled with nations—most of them oblivious, of course—and talked about inane topics that amounted to idle chat. But as Matthew hung around the lobby, waiting for the meeting to start—ten minutes, proclaimed his watch—he had the distinct feeling of all eyes being on him. Which was exactly what he wanted. When the clock struck the hour, he marched toward the meeting room slowly, allowing the chairs to fill up one by one. They were already whispering, gossiping, about the man they'd seen in the lobby. The man who couldn't possibly be here. The man who _wasn't_ here.

From around the corner, Matthew spotted a very pale Arthur, whose eyes kept stealing glances at the door. Worrisome. Hopeful. Arthur was probably the only Matthew would regret during this little stunt. He could already foresee the crushed hope and renewed devastation as it attacked Arthur's emotions and crushed his heart again. But, Matthew reminded himself, in the end, Arthur had betrayed Alfred too. And maybe, after this day was over, Matthew would go to him and listen to his apologies and watch him break down. And maybe, after seeing Arthur—the only other nation Matthew could find the remotest bit of care for—pouring out true sincerity…maybe, just maybe, Matthew would start to forgive him.

As every seat filled and hushed words crossed back and forth from side to side, whispering about the dead man they'd seen in the lobby, Matthew started to march forward. This was the moment he would be remembered for in history. This was the moment that Alfred, looking down on him from wherever nations pass on to, would thank eternally thank him for. This was the moment that Matthew had been waiting for more than anything else for the last three years.

But more than that, Matthew mused as he neared the threshold, this was something he _had_ to do. He was the living brother. He was the remaining family member. He was the only loved one left. This wasn't just a cruel joke. This wasn't a half-brained scheme. This wasn't a plot to make the nations of the world feel the true repercussions of their actions, though that is what Matthew wanted to them feel. The pain that they deserved.

No, this was something far more than that.

This was necessity.

This was his retribution.

This was his penance.

This was his trial.

This…

This was his call of duty.

So when he stepped up to the podium without a moment of hesitation, ignoring the hundred gasps of disbelief, he turned to face the crowd with a level of resolve he had never felt before in his entire life. When he opened his mouth to speak, he knew what followed would change the world forever. It would hurt every single person in the room, including himself. It would change the world's idea of Canada and America for the rest of their existence. It would cement in the ultimate betrayal that they had all committed and leave in its wake a feeling of sorrow that would linger until their world came crashing down.

And Matthew wouldn't have it any other way.

"Good afternoon. My name is Matthew Williams, and I am the national representative of Canada _and_ The United States of America. And I have an announcement to make regarding Alfred. F. Jones."

* * *

**Dro:** I love writing strong! Canada, and vengeful! Canada, for that matter. Anyway, hope you enjoyed the pure emo-ness of this one shot. Typical Dro, no?


End file.
